today I gulp latte
and try not to look at his accolytes
college types like himself
though the red brick of their yet unattained
english degree of a certain era
is more cut glass than his
he has them on leads
though in the world of his new found freedoms
they are not referred to by the common tongue
instead
in jest - only half joking - the yellow leather straps are called freeds
for his work has gone beyond
where once he sought the simple joy of ts elliott
that ease
that expression of the infinite
where once he balanced shiela's bloody
where once he longed publication
and found fulfillment in possibility
now he has gone beyond infinity
into a definite article
of constricted rules
in which the freed is the perfect symbol
for only he knows
only he sees
and his acolytes - disciplesque -
provide the loop of his greatness
his poem - for we no longer share
everything is him - is entitled
it's theme is perfection personified in the pixels of a full stop
on his phone
only on his phone
charged in his kitchen
oh how I long for the angst to return
that we might discuss again
a single rain drop runs down the pane
catches a rail of spent water
and commits suicide on the putty
in the hope that the sun will lift it back to the sky
so as it will again enjoy the giddyness of falling
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